


All my dues surely must be paid

by dragon_temeraire



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, I feel like I should have titled this fic 'I love it when you say my name', M/M, Mutual Pining, it's a real shocker sports fans, like so much fluff, they're in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 03:51:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_temeraire/pseuds/dragon_temeraire
Summary: “Oh,” Aziraphale says, startling a little and hurriedly shoving a book onto the shelf before turning to face him. “I didn’t realize you were back.”“You didn’t?” Crowley says, taking a few steps closer. “Then why were you saying my name?”





	All my dues surely must be paid

**Author's Note:**

> I watched Good Omens again, so I wrote another little fic! I will fully admit that parts of this were inspired by tumblr posts.

Crowley’s been off frequently on ‘business’ since the world almost ended. Lately it’s been to alter the M25—even after Adam’s world-reset, a road like that is always in need of repair, and he’s making sure the construction is changing the shape of it. After all, he doesn’t owe Hell anything anymore, and he’s certainly not letting the motorway turn into a ring of hellfire _again. _

When he gets back to the bookshop (sneaking in so the little bell doesn’t chime), Aziraphale is sorting and reshelving, a process he’s usually so invested in that he doesn’t notice anything else going on around him. So he’s surprised when Aziraphale says his name, like he already knows he’s there.

Then he says it again, “_Crowley_,” so soft and warm that Crowley feels his toes curl. He’s not sure he’s _ever_ heard someone say his name like that. 

“Aziraphale?” he says tentatively.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, startling a little and hurriedly shoving a book onto the shelf before turning to face him. “I didn’t realize you were back.”

“You didn’t?” Crowley says, taking a few steps closer. “Then why were you saying my name?”

“Well,” Aziraphale says, only a little hesitant, before rushing out with, “whenever I’m feeling lonely, or sad, I just say your name. Because it always makes me smile.” He looks a little embarrassed; wiggles a bit nervously, but otherwise stands firm.

Clearly, he really means it.

“I’m,” Crowley tries, because the full ramifications are still sinking in. “I’m glad. Have I been gone too much?”

“No, my dear. You’re doing something important, and that’s what matters,” Aziraphale says, and tucks his hand in the crook of Crowley’s elbow. “Come and have some tea.”

Crowley makes a noise in the back of his throat, and files all of this away to be thought about later.

Much later.

*

Aziraphale goes to the back room ostensibly to check his supply of wine, but really he’s there to have a look at Crowley, whose sunglasses are off and who’s been napping on his couch for the last hour. It’s rare that he gets the opportunity to do so without Crowley looking back at him. It’s a little terrifying to realize that, given the chance, he would happily gaze at Crowley forever.

But when he gets closer, he realizes Crowley is restless—perhaps not quite in a nightmare, but approaching it. Aziraphale certainly can’t allow that, not on his watch, so he decides to do one _small_ miracle.

“In a few moments, you will wake up, having dreamed about whatever you like best,” he says, snapping his fingers.

The tension goes out of Crowley’s body immediately, and his face relaxes into a small, tender smile. He nuzzles deeper into the pillow, then sighs out contentedly, “_Aziraphale_.”

Aziraphale clamps a hand over his mouth to keep from making a sound, and hurries back out to the front before Crowley can see him. A customer, just stepping into the shop, is so startled by Aziraphale’s appearance that he bolts right back out again.

Aziraphale just leans against the counter, heart racing, trying to understand what he’s just heard.

He’s not sure what he’d have expected Crowley to dream about, but in no case had he considered that Crowley might dream about _him_. That he would be _what Crowley likes best_. Certainly he’s been aware of Crowley’s love for him through the millenia, but types of love are hard to pin down. Crowley could have simply loved him as a friend, or colleague (did people love their colleagues? Aziraphale certainly felt none for Gabriel).

But now he wonders if maybe Crowley loves him the way he loves Crowley. Wonders if it’s the _romantic_ sort of love he’s been hoping for all along.

*

Being nearly certain of something and actually knowing what to do about it are two very different things, Aziraphale discovers.

It’s hard to know what to say, or how to ask. He’s never done this before. What he needs is for Crowley to do the asking, for Crowley to figure out the relationship part. (If there _is _a relationship part. Aziraphale hopes there will be). Crowley just about always does what Aziraphale wants, anyway.

All Aziraphale has to do is give him some _hints._ Maybe a little encouragement. And then surely Crowley will take matters into his own hands.

So, he makes sure Crowley’s favorite wines are always in the shop, invites Crowley to sleep on the sofa whenever he likes, and even offers to make space in the bookshop for some of Crowley’s excess plants. He lets their shoulders brush whenever they sit together, and willingly goes for drives in the Bentley, though not too often.

And even with Aziraphale doing everything he can think of, it still takes Crowley months to figure it out.

*

In all honesty, Crowley is still reeling from the revelation that Aziraphale says his name whenever he needs to smile. The idea that he actually _brightens his angel’s day_ is unbelievable. And hope-inspiring, which is the last thing he needs. Not when nothing is going to come of it.

But that knowledge, combined with the way Aziraphale seems so eager have him around, and all the little touches to his shoulders or back, or that one time, heaven—somebody—help him, his _thigh_, make him wonder if there might be reason to hope after all.

Even worse, though, are the dreams he’s been having lately. They’re absurd, soppy things, where Crowley holds Aziraphale’s hand, or feeds him petit fours, or curls up next to him in bed in matching pyjamas, but Crowley holds onto them rather tightly just the same.

And as the days go on, he decides he’s been in suspense long enough.

When they retire to the back room for the evening, Crowley perches in the chair across from Aziraphale, feeling unreasonably nervous.

“Angel?” He tries, then stalls out.

Aziraphale, who’d been about to pick up a book—he’s taken to reading to Crowley whenever he gets the chance, and Crowley can’t say he minds—turns and gives Crowley his full attention. “Yes, my dear?”

“Is there a chance—” he starts, and finds that, despite having six thousand years to prepare, he can’t quite get the words out. He tries again, hoping somehow that Aziraphale understands what he’s trying to say. “That is, I think we should—”

“Wonderful, I’m so glad,” Aziraphale says, beaming, and takes Crowley’s hands in his own.

And Crowley smiles, because _of course Aziraphale understands._ He always has.

Aziraphale leans forward, gently pressing his lips against Crowley’s, and Crowley can suddenly _feel_ the love Aziraphale has for him. It’s bright and beautiful and warm, and somewhere in another dimension his wings are spreading, trying to bask in it.

Crowley holds those soft, perfect hands tightly in his own, kisses Aziraphale deeply, and returns that love in equal measure.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come by/say hey [ on tumblr](http://dragon-temeraire.tumblr.com/).


End file.
